


Hell to Pay

by bogwitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-19
Updated: 2009-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 09:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bogwitch/pseuds/bogwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bela awaits her murky fate...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell to Pay

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Time is on my Side Spoilers for same.
> 
> No characters were harmed in the making of this fic (that comes after). Bela does not belong to me, but is the property of hellish corporate entities who would just love to track me down and rip me to shreds too.

"I'll see you in hell."

Empty words that offer no comfort and they'll be the last Bela will ever hear. A severe goodbye from another doomed soul on the same twisted path to the pit. They're all too horribly true.

_Time's up, Bela_. The world seems to whisper on a haunting reverb. _Your debt is due_.

No hourglass sands to count down the minutes to the end of her life, nothing but the flip of a number on a scruffy bedside clock. 12:00: magic midnight, but Hell won't be sending a carriage.

There's no escape. Not from this. There are no more deals left to make, no more desperate cards left to play. Death has punched her ticket and is waiting. She's got a third class ticket downstairs and it's going to be one hell of a trip. Ten years of lying, stealing and conniving for naught but pain and swift death in cheap hotel room. Ten years of running from cruel, wandering hands. Damned if she does, damned if she doesn't. Fortunes blown on nothing but dead ends bought, sold and traded. All the charms, all the herb lore, all the empty words the spirits have whispered, each as useless as the next. Every lead ending in the same conclusion: she can't be saved, her soul is no longer her own. She's one of the damned. The long con is over and it turns out she was the mark all along.

Bela wipes her face clean of self-pitying tears for final time. The night is hot and airless, despite the April chill. A storm is about to break, super-heated by her own despair and dread, holding itself close as howls and low snarls curdle the night beneath a solemn, silent moon. Hell is coming to collect. The hounds call for her blood, ready to rip away her mortgaged soul. She already knows them too well; they have filled her blood soaked dreams for years with lunging teeth dripping with foam and slobber. Their flashing claws, ferocious and possessive, tear her skin, shredding sinew and scraping the flesh from her shattered bones night after dreaded night. They want her to know they are waiting. Always.

She swallows and lifts her chin. One year, ten years; the fate is the same. There are no more seconds left to be grabbed back and hoarded with salt lines and Devil's Shoestring. The one thing she knows about time is that there is never enough of it.

Too many could have beens have been wasted to save a life already plundered by a monstrous man who knew better but couldn't care less. Her freedom had a high price and a body count, but she won't die a coward. Not now. She made her own fate ten years ago in a neat English park. Just let them try to break her.

At least she'll have company.

_See you down there Dean Winchester_.

Time's up. She doesn't see 12:01.


End file.
